


Somehow, Somewhere, Sometime

by myshipsaresunk



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Historical References, Romance, Temporary Character Death, i mean you guys know what to expect from a reincarnation au, period settings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myshipsaresunk/pseuds/myshipsaresunk
Summary: Reincarnation AU. Ten thousand years ago, a fight between two strangers sets off a curse that cannot be broken until the original wrongs are righted. Zuko and Katara are enemies from the beginning, destined to cross paths through space and time until they get it right. And it takes them several tries to get it right.Or, as I affectionate call this, a collection of historical AUs with an underlying enemies to lovers theme.
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. The First Life

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights belong to Nickelodeon, Bryan Konietzko, Michael Dante DiMartino, and all the men and women that created the A:TLA show, books, and comics. I take no credit, and I do not mean to break any copyright rules. This is simply a work of fiction made for enjoyment. No money is being made.
> 
> Rating: T for violence, character death, some implied scenes
> 
> Author's Note: Hey guys! I'm back for more Zutara! This is a Reincarnation AU, but I'm lazy with doing research so I've decided to loosely base most of the chapters off actual historical events/historical fiction. For instance, the next chapter will be a Trojan War AU, there's a Mulan AU in here somewhere, etc. For those of you who have read The Last Waterbender, I promise I'm not going to be as reliant on the source material as I was in that fic. Most of these chapters are going to be upwards of 10,000k each, so I'm not going to be updating as often as I usually do. Right now I'm planning for about 10 chapters (one chapter for each life)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

**Present Day - Japan**

The stone gleams a brilliant blue underneath the bright lights of the display case. The carved waves are etched masterfully in swirling patterns that fall into shadows under the lights. The moment Zuko sets his eyes on it he knows he has to give it to her.

He tries to move on, realizing how ridiculous his thoughts sound. Focus, he tells himself. He came here to find a birthday present for his sister. She’s not a huge jewelry person, but he’s not sure what else to get her. Resisting the urge to go back to the blue stone, he continues looking at other pieces. He finds an antique ivory comb studded with rubies, amethysts, and citrine that wind together to create a glittering flame. He points to it and the assistant across the counter pulls it out for him. It’s a little expensive, but he thinks his sister will actually like it.

As he heads to the register to pay, he passes the blue stone again, and this time he can’t help himself. The assistant doesn’t even ask before pulling it out and setting it on top of the glass counter.

“That’s an old piece,” the jeweler says, coming to stand by his side. “It was pawned to us by a lady who said she found it in her mother’s things after she died. Apparently it was a family heirloom dating back generations - to the American Revolution, at least. But times got hard and heirlooms are only as valuable as the memories that come with them - unless you sell them, of course.”

“It’s the same color as her eyes,” Zuko says, unable to tear his eyes off it.

“Your girlfriend?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just a girl I know.”

“But you want her to be your girlfriend?” The jeweler smiles and nods his head towards the piece. “Buy her that and she won’t say no.”

Zuko doesn’t want to buy her love. He doesn’t even know if he loves her. He doesn’t know if they could have a future together. But the stone gleams the same way her eyes do when she smiles and when he closes his eyes he imagines the stone around her neck and it looks right. He can see it as clearly as if he’s seen it on her before. As clearly as if it was always meant to be worn by her.

It’s far too expensive a trinket to buy for a girl he barely knows, but he finds himself pulling out his credit card anyway. Something is drawing him towards the stone, calling for him to buy it. And he is already imagining how he’s going to give it to her, how she’ll gather her dark hair off to the side and let him tie the ribbon off in the back. Then she’ll turn to him and smile and all will be right in the world.

The jeweler sets the necklace in a box and wraps it up tight with a ribbon. “I can also make a custom gift tag,” he offers. “What is her name?”

“Her name is Katara.”

-

**Ten Thousand Years Ago - Mesopotamia**

Zuko’s eyes are set on the girl standing by the edge of the water. Or rather not the girl, but the necklace that hangs around her neck. As if taunting him, she reaches up a hand and traces the curve of the blue stone absently. His jaw clenches as he watches.

His gaze shifts back to the men hidden alongside him in the brush, all tightly holding onto their spears. Down in the valley below, the villagers carry on with their day, completely unaware of the threat looming above them.

Zuko’s fingers curl around the rough wooden staff of his spear. He doesn’t like fighting, doesn’t like killing, but it has to be done. His tribe has been starving for far too long. It’s been nearly three years since the rains fell heavily, and their once lush farmlands have long since turned to desert wastelands. His people have been dying, withering away to nothing. His father, the leader, has only become more irritable and cruel as hard times turn into deadly times.

This is their last chance. Zuko stares down at the hidden oasis. He feels bad for these people, for what’s about to happen to them. At least it’ll be quick. They haven’t had to waste away to nothing like his village. They haven’t had to fight to survive everyday. They haven’t had to eat their dogs and drink their blood to survive. They’ve been blessed while everyone around them has suffered.

It’s all because of that stone. Zuko’s eyes once again go to the girl by the water. The stone is a gift from the gods, bringing them endless water and rain, keeping them alive. All he has to do is get his hands on that stone and the blessing of the gods will follow.

He motions for his best fighter. When the man crawls over to his side, Zuko points at the girl. 

“You lead the attack on the village,” he says. “Do whatever needs to be done. But the girl? She’s mine.”

The man nods and goes to relay the message to the rest of the men. Zuko turns back to watching her.

He’s always been seen as weak by his father. His father has always put him down, barely tolerated him. Since the famine started, it’s only become much, much worse. But if Zuko returns today with victory and that stone in his hands, his father will finally be proud of him. No one will dare call him weak again. And his tribe will be able to not just survive, but finally thrive.

That stone is the key to everything.

Zuko raises his hand, and his men ready themselves. Then he lets it fall and they rush forward, war cries tearing from their throats as they converge on the village.

-

Katara is kneeling down at the edge of the water, running her hands underneath the flow when she hears the shouts. She stands up straight in alarm and turns to see enemy warriors bearing down on her village, spears held high and a terrifying cry coming from their mouths. She watches as the men in her village - her father, her brother - hurriedly reach for their weapons and run towards the fight. The women and children flee to the trees or to hide in the huts. 

Katara is completely exposed with nowhere to run - and one man is rushing straight towards her, a fierce determination in his golden eyes.

She backs up into the water, soaking her calves and then her thighs and her waist as she wades deeper. She prays to the gods to save her as the man reaches the edge of the water. He could easily throw his spear and end her life, but he doesn’t. Instead he narrows his eyes and begins trudging through the water towards her.

She backs up farther, until the water is at her chest and her movements are constricted. Her only hope is that one of the men from her village will notice her plight and spear him from behind. But when she looks past the stranger’s shoulder at her village, she only sees flames engulfing the huts and hears screams of terror and pain.

The man stops when he’s only a few feet away from her. He’s still holding his spear above the waterline, but though he’s well within range, he doesn’t drive it into her. Instead his eyes focus on her neck. Her fingers instinctively reach up to cover the blue stone necklace she always wears.

“Give it to me,” he demands, holding out his hand. “Give it to me and I’ll let you live.”

Katara takes another slow step back. She feels seaweed wrapping around her ankle, but she ignores it. She doesn’t believe that he’ll let her live - not while she’s witnessing his tribesmen killing hers. And even if she trusted him, she wouldn’t give away the necklace so easily. It’s the only thing she has to remember her mother by.

“Hand it over,” he orders, thrusting his hand forward. “Now!”

Katara feels a wave of anger rush over her. How dare he invade her home and take her things and kill her family? How dare he feel entitled to anything of hers!

He may have a spear, but he’s trapped chest-deep in water - her element. Katara grew up on the banks of this lake. She grew up swimming and fishing and wading through these waters. This is her territory. She has the advantage here.

“If you want it,” she says, “you’ll have to come and get it.”

She turns and dives under the water, pushing off the sandy bottom as best as she can. There’s not much forward propulsion, but once she starts swimming he’ll never catch her. She’s always been the best swimmer in her village.

Underneath the water, the sounds of the battle disappear. A still calmness invades her senses. She allows herself to relax for a split moment - and that’s when the pain hits. A striking pain like nothing she’s ever felt before.

She breaks the surface a few feet away and gasps, both for air and from the pain. The man no longer has his spear in his hand, and the water is turning crimson around her. The back of her leg throbs unbearably.

He slowly wades closer to her. Katara pulls herself through the water with just her arms, but her injured leg is a dead weight holding her back. The man grabs her ankle under the water and yanks her back towards him. She fights every second, clawing at the water uselessly.

She feels him grab at the ribbon around her neck and rip the stone off. She thrashes, still held in his grip, as he holds the stone up in the air. His eyes hold its attention as if he’s worshipping it.

Katara sees her chance. His grip on her has loosened, and she throws herself at him, using her good leg to wrap around his and driving the edge of her heel into the back of his knee. He loses his balance and falls backward into the water. She pushes down until his face is under the water.

Now he’s the one thrashing against her grip. Her strength is leaving her as her leg continues to bleed out into the lake around them, but she holds him under. 

After a minute, he stops moving. She holds him under a few seconds longer to be sure, and then she pushes off of him. His body floats upward, his limbs stilled. She reaches out and uncurls the fingers of his fist.

The stone isn’t there. Her eyes widen and she grabs at his other fist, but the stone isn’t there, either. She moves her arms through the water, straining with her fingers, but she doesn’t feel anything. Her necklace is gone.

Katara drags herself back towards shore, half-swimming and half pushing with her one good leg. She crawls onto the bank as the water shallows. As she clutches her bleeding leg weakly with one hand, she hears footsteps approaching.

If it’s the enemy, she doesn’t care. She’s dying anyway. She’s lost so much blood already. Her father and brother are likely dead, and she’s lost the only connection she had left to her mother. Her village is on fire, her safe oasis violated.

“My dear,” a voice says, and she looks up in surprise to see the village shaman kneeling down next to her.

“I’m dying,” she says, strangely calm in the midst of all the chaos. It’s probably shock; she’s seen it before in men who came back from hunting trips with holes in their stomachs or chests from their deadly prey. They’re completely calm, even as the life fades right out of them.

“It can’t end like this,” the shaman says. “Where is the stone?”

She nods back towards the lake. “I lost it.”

A troubled look comes over his face. “It won’t end until the wrong has been righted,” he says. Then he grabs her shoulder with a claw-like grip and forces her to stare into his eyes. “It won’t end until the stone has been returned. Remember that.”

“It won’t end?” Katara laughs weakly. “It’s already over.”

“My dear child.” The shaman looks at her with pity. “It has only just begun.”

The moment is broken by the sound of whistling air and then a thud. The shaman’s eyes pop out and then he falls sideways, a spear pierced through him. Katara falls back against the sand, her eyelids heavy.

The last thing she sees before everything goes black is the smoke from the fires of her village curling up into the sky.


	2. Greece - 1180 BC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All rights belong to Nickelodeon, Bryan Konietzko, Michael Dante DiMartino, and all the men and women that created the A:TLA show, books, and comics. I take no credit, and I do not mean to break any copyright rules. This is simply a work of fiction made for enjoyment. No money is being made.
> 
> Rating: T for violence, character death, some implied scenes
> 
> Author's Note: Trojan War AU! I (loosely) based this off the 2004 Troy movie, which I know is not very accurate but whatever. Basically Zuko is Achilles and Katara is Briseis. I also didn't mention this last chapter, but the title of the fic comes from the song "Irgendwie, Irgendwo, Irgendwann" by Nena which was a huge inspiration for this fic and I highly recommend you check it out!

**1180 BC - Greece**

Katara is scrubbing the salt crust off the rim of the marble fountain when she hears the pounding of frantic footsteps. She straightens and turns, watching the young messenger boy sprint past the shrine of Poseidon and up the hill to the grand temple of Apollo. Even despite the steep incline, he pushes through until he disappears through the towering archway.

She’s never seen a messenger rush so quickly. Whatever words he carries, they must be of the utmost importance. She remains standing for another moment, the sea breeze from the nearby coast buffering her simple blue robes and teasing her hair.

Then, with a shrug, she turns back to her task. Gossip spreads quickly between the acolytes. Whatever is going on, she’s sure to hear about it before the end of the day. For now, she may as well return to her tasks.

Katara is the only acolyte at the shrine of Poseidon. Since Apollo is the patron god of Troy, the young men and women who go into the service of the gods flock to the temple looming upon the hilltop. It’s a beautiful sight, Katara can’t deny - all white marble columns and statues trimmed with gold, glorious melodies and wonderful aromas constantly streaming out from inside. Apollo is a fair and vain god, and his temple reflects it. There are dozens of acolytes and priests constantly moving in and out and around the building, accepting sacrifices, praying, listening for prophecies, and playing music or learning about medicine.

She herself actually started out studying the arts of medicine in the temple of Apollo. But although she respects the god of the sun, music, poetry, and healing, she always felt like there was something missing. When the old priest who keeps up the shrine of Poseidon came looking for an apprentice, Katara alone accepted the position.

Since the city of Troy lies along the coast of the Aegean Sea, it would be arrogant of the city to not have some dedication to the god of the seas. So while the little shrine sitting in the shadows of the temple of Apollo isn’t much, it does provide a buffer between the anger of the elder god as well as a place for travellers to pay their respects before attempting a journey by sea.

Katara has never felt so fulfilled in her life since coming to work here. There’s nothing she loves more than the sea. Deep in her heart, she’s always felt a calling to the water. Even on the days when she doesn’t cross the sandy beach to the shore, she’s surrounded by the gentle fountains and the constant smell of salt. The little shrine is nothing more than a small room that could fit at most twenty men comfortably with two much smallers rooms for her and the old priest at the back, but to her it’s home.

And if she ever becomes lonely or bored, she simply heads up the hilltop to see her fellow acolytes at the temple of Apollo.

Today, though, it’s another one of the acolytes who visits her. A rare, though not entirely unusual, event, except today Katara is not surprised. Ever since she saw the messenger boy earlier this morning, she had a feeling she would get a visitor.

It’s a young woman named Sophronia. She studied medicine with Katara when they were younger, but has since discovered an affinity for music. She is one of the few acolytes Katara would call a friend.

Katara is seated on the top step of the shrine, leaning against the fountain she had cleaned this morning. Sophronia looks like she's about to burst at the seams, her hands clasped excitedly in front of her and a few strands of her hair falling out of her hairdo and framing her face. Her green eyes dance with excitement.

“Have you eaten yet?” Katara asks as she approaches.

“I couldn’t, I came as soon as I heard!”

Katara motions next to her. “Here. Tell me over food.”

Sophronia sits next to Katara and accepts the simple bread dipped with olive oil and fish. Today they even have the luxury of a few dried dates to share, since supplies had just been sent out from the city.

“You won’t believe the news,” Sophronia says, barely chewing her food before swallowing. “The princes Hector and Paris have returned from Sparta.”

“Forgive me if I fail to see what’s unbelievable about that,” Katara says. “They did always mean to return.”

“But they didn’t return alone.” Sophronia glances around and drops her voice, although Katara is sure whatever she’s about to tell her will soon be common news within the city. “You know King Menelaus’ young wife?”

“Helen of Sparta? The woman who is supposed the most beautiful in the whole world?” Katara can’t quite keep the edge of sarcasm hidden.

Sophronia doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes. Apparently Prince Paris wooed her and snuck her aboard his vessel!”

Katara’s jaw drops. She stares at her friend. At first, she doesn’t quite believe the news. But as her initial shock settles and her mind turns the situation over in her head, she realizes that it's not so unbelievable.

“Of course he did.” Katara sets aside her food, having suddenly lost her appetite. “I’m sure the king will be displeased, but the insult is delivered. There’s no sending her back.”

Sophronia shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re taking this so calmly. I’d think you were mad, if I hadn’t known you for so long.”

Katara doesn’t know what to tell her. She certainly won’t reveal that she’s not surprised because she knows King Priam personally. She grew up in the palace, spent her childhood around Prince Hector and Prince Paris. They weren’t just her friends, they’re her cousins. Her family.

Paris, a couple years younger than she, was always testing the rules, always pushing the limits. He didn’t do it to cause trouble, he just never thought things through. He led his life with his heart. It’s an admirable passion, if often misled. 

Hector - well, his older brother is the opposite. Hector is intelligent and logical. A true general and tactician. He often ended up cleaning up Paris’ messes. Katara always admired and looked up to him. They were close as children, but once he started learning to rule and fight his duties drew him away from her. Not long after, she chose a life of servitude to the gods.

Katara still feels that kinship to him whenever he visits. He visited the shrine just before they left and she’s sure he’ll be back now that they’ve returned. She’d seen the sails last night and been surprised when he didn’t come immediately, but now she understands. Giving a sacrifice to Poseidon as a thanks for safe passage over the seas is important, but not quite as important as dealing with the familial and political drama that Paris has just unleashed with his latest action.

Today, Katara would give anything to be back in the palace. She knows her uncle Priam well, but even she is curious as to how he will react to this latest happening. He loves both his sons dearly, though he’s long been more than a little exasperated with Paris’ unavailing youth and immaturity.

Troy had just come to an agreement with Sparta before Paris took off with the king of Sparta’s wife. It’s not an offense Sparta can forgive and Troy can easily remedy. At the very least, Menelaus will want his wife back, and Katara has the feeling King Priam and Prince Paris won’t be so easily persuaded to just hand her over.

Whatever happens, Katara desperately hopes that Paris and Helen truly love each other.

-

Zuko sits alone on the edge of the ruins, his feet swinging into the empty air. Beneath him lies the city of Sparta. Even from the great height of the site of an ancient temple, he can smell the aroma of fresh baked bread and seared meat rising up, hear the muffled sounds of shouting, the thud of heavy objects slamming into each other, and the cry of the birds flying over the top of the city.

He often wishes that he had wings. If he did, he’d fly far away from here, far away from his past and his present and the looming burden of his destiny.

There’s another sound, one that echoes off the old worn pillars. Hoofbeats. A half dozen horses, he’d guess based off the sound. Coming up the hill and towards him. Galloping.

People are always in a hurry. Why are they always rushing? They will their time to go by so quickly, their lives passing in a flash. Zuko wishes they’d all slow down, appreciate still moments like the one he was just enjoying.

When the horses get closer, Zuko recognizes the hushed voices of the men speaking. He hears all the horses pulled to a stop, but only one man dismounts.

He knows exactly who it is.

The footsteps approach him from behind. Zuko pays the man no heed, closing his eyes and feeling the warm wind blow through his shoulder-length hair and across his shoulders. He’s only wearing thin, simple robes. From the weight of the footsteps, he knows the other man is wearing armor.

“Zuko.”

He can hardly keep ignoring the man, but that doesn’t mean he has to resort to throwing himself at his feet. Without turning around, Zuko acknowledges him. “King Odysseus.”

“It’s good to see you again,” the king offers, trying to hide the affronted tone of his voice. Kings aren’t used to being given the cold shoulder, especially not kings who are also mighty warriors. No matter how well they know Zuko, and how well they know what to expect from him.

“Are you here at King Agamemnon's bidding?” Zuko asks, cutting past pleasantries. “Or at King Menelaus’? Certainly not at your own.”

“We need to talk,” King Odysseus says.

“I don’t need to do anything.” Zuko’s voice is hard and cold. 

He hears a shift behind him and in the blink of an eye he’s whirled around, snatched up the spear at his side, and thrown it twenty feet to where one of Odysseus’ guards has dismounted and drawn his sword. Now the man is pinned to a nearby tree by the edge of his cloak, an inch from his skin.

“I told you to stay on your horses, no matter what,” the king calls back to his men. “If Zuko decides to kill me, there’s nothing you can do to stop him. He’ll kill you all before you get close enough to swing your sword.”

He turns back to Zuko, a small smile on his face. “You look good.”

“You’re not used to seeing me without blood and gore smeared all over my face.” Zuko sets his hands on the hilts of his twin swords. It’s not meant to be a threatening gesture - he’s just just grown comfortable resting his hands there. He’s spent so much of his young life wielding them that his hands feel empty without them.

“How long has it been since you last fought? The tales of your battles are still sung, but most people thought the gods had taken you up to Mount Olympus already. No one has seen you for a long time.”

“No one has recognized me,” Zuko corrects. “It’s funny how people can look right at someone and not see them for who they are. Why would they see a great warrior in a market buying imported tea or hunched over a simple meal?”

Odysseus inclines his head. “I understand. I was once like you.”

“I remember.”

Odysseus is possibly the only man alive who truly understands Zuko. He was a great hero of the gods in his youth who went on legendary quests and won epic battles in lands both known and unknown. Every man, woman, and child in Greece knows his name. Before he became the king of Ithaca, he was much like Zuko is now.

Only, Zuko has no desire to be king. And even if he did, it’s not in the prophecies for him. His life was always destined to be short and tragic. Nothing he does can change that. He can only make the most of the time he does have.

And that does not include fighting any more wars for Agamemnon or Menelaus.

“I won’t fight for them,” he says, turning back to overlook the city of Sparta. Odysseus comes up to stand beside him.

“I’m not asking you to fight for him,” the king says. “I’m asking you to fight for Greece.”

“I’ve fought for Greece my entire life. Most times, they were fighting each other.” Zuko crosses his arms. “I heard what happened. I have no quarrel with the Trojans.”

“They insulted Greece.”

“They insulted one man. A man who couldn’t keep his own wife from being stolen from his own home. That doesn’t sound like a man I want to fight for.”

“You don’t have to fight for him. You just have to fight.” Although Zuko isn’t looking at Odysseus, he can feel the man’s eyes on him. “All we’re asking is for your sword.”

Zuko pulls one of his swords out of its sheath. “Then take my sword.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Zuko turns sharply to him. “Then speak what you mean.”

Odysseus holds his gaze, not backing down. As much as Zuko is irritated by his disruption, he can’t deny his respect for the man. He knows of no other man who would gaze unflinchingly into his eyes, especially when he has a sword in his hand.

“You are blessed by the gods, Zuko. Is there any greater insult than to let that blessing fall by the wayside while you sit on the top of a hill and let life pass you by? You were meant for greatness, and this war is a chance to prove your worth and gain the glory of the gods.”

Zuko stabs his sword into the ground. “That’s what they say every time I go to war. And each time is not the last. How much glory is enough?”

Odysseus reaches out and sets a hand on his shoulder. “I have felt the way you feel now. But eventually, it is the last time. When that time comes, you’ll finally get to retire to a quiet, peaceful life.”

_Maybe you. Not me,_ Zuko thinks. _This is the best I’m ever going to get._ Instead he says, “Peaceful, huh? Looks like you’re still going to war.”

The king grins. “Ah, but it is by choice not by necessity. This is going to be the greatest war of all time. One thousand ships are sailing to Troy. I would not miss this opportunity for the world.” He pauses, then adds, “I’ve already spoken to your cousin. He was more than eager to secure a place among the ranks of soldiers seeking glory.”

Zuko curses under his breath. Of course Timon wouldn’t miss it. Ever since Zuko started training him to fight, he’d been eager to prove his worth. Zuko wishes he had been more convincing when he told them that war isn’t as glorious as everyone makes it out to be. There’s nothing beautiful or romantic about it. War is ugly and dirty.

Zuko wishes his cousin would understand that his fighting abilities are a curse, not a blessing.

If Timon is going, then it is only a reflection of Zuko’s failure to teach him the horrors of war. And it is his responsibility to keep him safe so that he returns home.

“I will go,” Zuko relents. He avoids looking at Odysseus’ face, not wanting to see the satisfied smile there. “But I fight for myself, not for any king.”

“No one expects any different. Your reputation precedes you.”

Zuko listens as Odysseus walks back to his guards and the horses. Before he rides away, he calls back, “I’ll see you tomorrow, at the harbor!”

Zuko doesn’t reply. He simply grips the hilt of his sword tighter.

-

Katara feels strange as she stands in the palace, wearing a silk gown with an embroidered lace shawl and train and silver jewelry on her arms and around her neck. Compared to the other women in the court, she’s dressed quite conservatively. Compared to how she used to dress on a daily basis, this should feel normal. Instead, all she feels is out of place.

It’s been a few years since she’s been back in the city. Occasionally she’d imagine what it would be like to return, but she didn’t dwell long on such thoughts. She enjoys her position as an acolyte of the sea god. She enjoys the freedom her job gives her and the peace of living outside the bustling city. She wouldn’t trade it for her old life of long, boring dinners and dancing around insults with prominent and rich people and pretending to be someone she wasn’t around potential suitors.

Still, Katara can’t deny that she’s excited to see her family again.

She reunited with her uncle earlier in the day, when he’d greeted her as she returned to the palace. He’s the one who had invited her back, after all. Katara is a little surprised that he’s not forgotten her after the years and after all his kingly responsibilities, but she remembers that he was always quite fond of her as a child. She never met her mother, who came from a foriegn land, and her father died when she was still young, so her uncle became in many ways a father figure to her. She was pleased that the strong bond between them had not broken or frayed in the years past.

Now she’s waiting eagerly in a crowd of other royals and high ranking Trojans, trying to remember her manners as they wait for the princes to finish off the parade route through the city. She’s standing next to Hector’s wife, Andromache, and the maid holding their baby son Astyanax. Hector had married Andromache after Katara left to be an acolyte, so she met the woman for the first time today. Her impression is that she’s a fitting match for Hector - strong and intelligent and independent, yet loyal and caring.

The crowd outside cheers loudly. Katara tries to keep herself from bouncing up and down in excitement. Within minutes a few figures make it to the top of the steps. Katara cranes her neck forward as she sees Hector at the front, his dark, curly hair held back with golden plaits. He greets his father with a hug before stepping aside. Paris is next, his hair not quite as long but just as curly; and behind him comes the famed Helen of Sparta.

She is beautiful, that much Katara has to admit. She has long, blonde hair and fair skin without blemishes. She’s wearing a white and gold dress with a golden crown of laurels atop her brow. She bows to King Priam and he takes her hand, helps her stand, and kisses her on both cheeks. 

Hector immediately darts around his father to embrace Andromache. Katara gives them time to reunite while she calls out for her cousin Paris.

“Katara?” A wide smile crosses his face and he crushes her to his chest in a way that is probably improper but very much like him. “You’ve grown even more beautiful since I last saw you. The sun and ocean has done wonders for you.”

She smiles up at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Hector step over. He greets her more properly, with a kiss on her cheek. 

“It is indeed good to see you again, cousin.”

“And you as well. I offered sacrifices every day so that you would both return safely.”

“And here I thought the fair winds and calm waters was a sign that the gods approved of Helen and I.” Paris reaches out for her, bringing her close. “Helen, meet my cousin, Katara.”

“Katara,” Helen repeats. “What an unusual name. It’s beauty befits you.”

“As does yours,” Katara replies.

Hector smiles and reaches out to touch the edge of her veil. “You should have heard the weeping in the city on the night Katara chose to don the virgin robes. The young men of Troy were heartbroken.”

“And my heart sang like it never has before.”

Katara stays at the palace for a week while the court celebrates Paris and Helen. At night, when the parties and banquets are filling the halls with laughter and music, everything is good and happy. But during the mornings there is a tense undertone. Katara flits about freely, overhearing conversations and rumors. 

It’s not just King Menelaus and Sparta that’s coming for Helen, she hears. It’s all of Greece. A thousand ships, heading straight for their shores. The largest army man has ever created is coming to their doorstep.

The walls of Troy are high and strong. They’ve never been breached. But if they are to be overtaken, it will be at the hands of this army.

Katara isn’t sure how she feels about it all. Of course she’s worried for her family, Paris in particular. She’s worried about the city of Troy and her uncle. But she’s not scared like the others. Her training in the temple has taught her that everything is in the hands of the gods. Whatever happens is meant to happen. 

There’s also tension between her family, and that concerns her more than anything. She can see how happy Paris and Helen are together - after spending his teen years as a womanizer, Paris has finally found the one. But in the process, there’s a new wall built up between him and Hector, and a smaller one, though still existent, between him and Priam. Both Priam and Hector have distanced themselves from everyone, new lines on their faces and tension in their every move.

Katara doesn’t know how to fix it. She doesn’t think she can fix it. All they can do is wait for the war to come. 

And the war is coming.

-

When Katara returns to the shrine, she sees that Priam’s men have not been idle. The beach is full of men building up fortifications and setting traps. The once tranquil surroundings are now violated by the pounding of hammers and the clacking of wood and the creaking of carts. Katara hears the shouting of men when she tries to pray, and the occasional loud crash causes her to drip hot wax from the candles onto her hand.

The temple of Apollo looms over them as formidable as ever. She goes up to the larger temple to pray to their patron god as well. Her family needs all the divine help they can get.

The temple is more solemn than she’s ever seen it. The music is faint and morose, no longer the cheerful folk songs she’s used to hearing. All the medics have been sent to the city to prepare for the inevitable wounded. There are acolytes tasked with praying at all times. There’s a constant stream of visitors, commoners and noble alike, who come to pray and give up sacrifices to the god.

In her tiny room at the back of the shrine, Katara keeps count of the days it takes to sail from Sparta to Troy.

The day before she estimates Menelaus and Agamemnon’s fleet to arrive, a single ship large enough for fifty men comes into sight on the horizon, bearing black sails. Katara shades her eyes from the sun with a hand as she stands outside the shrine and watches it row closer to shore. The patrol on the beach catches sight of them, so she returns to her work.

Fifty men can’t take the beach alone. Both sides know it. The ship likely got here too soon and will anchor a safe distance away before the others arrive.

For some reason, that doesn’t feel right. And for some reason, Katara feels something stir within her chest when she sees it. It’s not fear, or anxiety, or dread - it’s not an emotion she can name. It’s a strange call within her, like she’s just now noticing that there’s something missing and whatever is on that ship is the answer.

Which is ridiculous. Katara returns to her tasks, trying to push the strange feeling away.

-

Zuko stands at the bow of his ship. He has fifty men behind him in black armour that matches his own, save for his helm. These men have been with him through countless battles. There used to be more of them. There used to be boatfulls of them. Now there is one boat and fifty of the toughest, bravest men he’s even known.

He doesn’t think about the ones that are lost. He doesn’t think about seeing them fall in battle, hearing their screams. He doesn’t think about searching hazy, haunted battlefields so that he can send their remains home - for the ones who have a home.

He definitely doesn’t think about how he’s always been the one who survived, most times without even a visible scratch.

_Your glory and doom go hand in hand with each other_ , the Oracle had told him when he visited Delphi. So far he’s seen a lot of glory and not much doom. Somehow, though, he has a bad feeling in his gut as he survives the approaching coast. He had a similar feeling when he left Sparta, like he would never see it again. Now, gazing upon the shores of Troy, he knows that this is it.

He reaches into a small pouch hidden inside his armor, pulling out a turquoise stone secured to a blue ribbon. The stone is carved with a wave pattern, matching the sea around them. Zuko’s mother had given it to him just before he left on this fated mission. When he was a child, she always looked in the shallows for shells to make his necklaces out of. Apparently she found something more beautiful than shells the last time she went searching.

He hadn’t wanted to take it. He knew, even back then, that he wasn’t coming back. He would have rather she kept the beautiful stone. But she pressed it into his palm, a sorrowful and serious look in her eyes, and he didn’t argue.

Now that he looks upon the coast, he’s glad he brought it. He’s not sure why, but he feels like it belongs here. Like it was fated to be brought here.

“Sir.” One of his men approach him from behind. He quickly slides the stone necklace back into the pouch. “Shall we wait? Agamemnon’s men are an hour behind.”

“We are not Agamemnon’s men and we do not follow him. Continue heading towards the beach.”

“Sir.”

The man hesitates, glancing at the fortified beach, then turns and relays the order to the other soldiers. Zuko feels the wind whipping through his hair, blowing into his face. He’s never been a huge fan of the sea, but there’s something liberating about standing at the front of the boat and letting the wind buffer him. It’s the closest man can get to flying.

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s above it all, soaring high into the clouds and far away from the war.

The shouts from the beach break him out of his reverie. He shakes the daydream out of his head. If he was meant to fly, the gods would have given him wings. Instead they gave him strong arms that can snap a man’s neck and wield swords without tiring; lean legs that can run far and fast and long; iron abs that can take a punch without bruising; and a conscience that allows him to kill countless men without hesitating.

No matter that it isn’t quite strong enough to keep him from sleeping without draughts or alcohol.

Zuko turns away from the beach and glances down at the men on his ship. Most are rowing, fighting the tides as they near the beach. He sees one man in ill-fitting armor and holding a shield at a slight angle.

“Timon!” he calls. His cousin hurries over to him.

“Yes?”

“Stay and guard the ship.”

His cousin pushes up his helm and frowns. “I came to fight the Trojans. How can I do that if I’m guarding the ship?”

“There are more than enough Trojans to be fought in the days to come. Taking this beach requires the skill of an experienced warrior.”

“And how am I to gain experience if you won’t let me fight?”

Zuko shakes his head. He can’t deal with this right now. “This is not the only battle we’ll be fighting. Sit this one out, cousin. I can’t focus if I’m worried about you.”

Timon doesn’t look happy, but he finally nods. Zuko turns back to the beach, which is coming closer with every second. If he squints into the distance behind them, he can just see the mixed sails of the other Greek armies.

“Steer her there!” Zuko points to the towering temple of Apollo on the hilltop. Most of the defenses on the beach are directed around the temple, not directly in front. Fools. They think the Greeks won’t dare risk angering the gods by razing a temple?

Maybe the Greeks won’t, but Zuko will. They cursed him to be a killer his whole life. What worse can they do to him?

He doesn’t fear the gods, and after all his men have been through in their names, neither do they.

Zuko doesn’t bother giving a speech. He doesn’t have to. His men are hardened. They know what awaits them. They know what they’re fighting for.

Trojan men begin racing down to the beach. There are hundreds of them now. Against Zuko and his fifty men, who are tired from a long boat trip across the Aegean Sea. The Trojans have the god Apollo on their side. Well, Zuko is about to change that.

Their boat hits the sand with a jolt. A volley of flaming arrows immediately greets them. Zuko and his men cover underneath their shields. While the archers reload, Zuko leaps out of the ship, landing on his knees in the sand. He hears dull thuds around him as his men follow suit. The next volley of arrows flies towards them. Zuko ducks under his shield again. He hears some cries as the arrows find their targets.

He doesn’t look back.

He pushes forward, keeping his shield held out in front of him. A strange sort of calmness fills him as he charges up the sand against overwhelming odds. This, too, is another “gift” the gods gave him that helped him become the legendary warrior that he is: he never feels fear. If his heart races, it is only because of exertion. He never hesitates, never falters, never fails.

Once his men are all on all the beach, they gather together and lock their shields to create a nearly impenetrable wall. Then, with coordinated grunts, they begin moving forward. Arrows either ricochet off or imbed themselves in, but they don’t pierce through.

As they near the first line of defenders, Zuko shifts his shield and peeks through a small gap.

“Loose!” he cries, and a couple of his men with bows jump up as the top line of men holding shields duck down. The archers release a few arrows quickly before ducking back down and being covered again by the shieldmen.

A minute later, their coordinated mass reaches the first line of defenders.

“Break!” Zuko shouts, and his men scatter, leaping onto the Trojans without remorse. The other lines of defense dare not throw spears or shoot arrows for fear of hitting their own men. Instead, they rush down from their positions, joining the wild fray.

Zuko releases himself. He learned early on to separate himself from his mind and just let his muscles move from memory. It’s easier, this way. To observe the battle as if he’s an invisible, floating entity, not the one who is doing the killing. If he let himself fully live in the moment, he’s not sure he wouldn’t completely turn into an animal. What he does is so savage, so cruel, that he can hardly reconcile it with who he is.

He didn’t ask to be a killer. He never wanted this destiny. But the funny thing about fate is that it can’t be avoided forever.

Zuko begins angling his way towards the temple, where the line of defenders is weaker and where his men can easily make a stand - if they can secure it. He doesn’t look back, trusting his soldiers to follow him as he cuts through the lines of Trojans daring to cross paths with him.

He glances back to the sea once, where he can see a few of Agamemnon’s ships closing in on the beach. They’re still a ways out, but the men must be rowing at double the speed, smelling the blood on the air and desperate for a taste of it.

His men follow him to the temple, surrounding it and destroying anyone in their path. The sand is soaked with blood when Zuko hears the call go up:

“Back to the city! Back to the city!”

The Trojans flee, running as fast as they can through the sand. Some of his men scavenge arrows from the fallen and shoot at the soldiers as they retreat. Zuko watches them but says nothing. It is the way of war.

His men gather around the temple. None have dared go inside yet, but Zuko is confident there are no soldiers inside. The Trojans wouldn’t dare disrespect their patron god by weaponizing his temple.

“This is a temple to Apollo, the patron god of Troy!” he shouts, lifting up a spear to emphasize his words. “Destroy it as we will destroy them. Take what you want. Destroy the rest.”

He picks up a fallen sword and with a smooth motion, slices through the statue of Apollo outside the building. His men watch with wide eyes as the golden head clunks against the marble steps. When he’s not zapped by lightning from the heavens for his pertinence, his men raise their weapons above their heads and charge forward, ready to sack the holy place.

“Sir!” One of his men rush up. “There’s a shrine to Poseidon just below the hill. Shall we take that as well?”

Zuko looks over at the fleet of ships still sailing to the beach. “No. Search it to ensure there are no soldiers hiding within, but don’t touch anything inside. I won’t mess with the earthquaker and hurricane creator.”

Zuko himself doesn’t take part in ransacking or looting. He just sits on the marble steps by the decapitated head of Apollo, watching as all the fighting men in Greece slowly make their way to the shores of Troy.

Today was just a taste of the war to come.

-

Katara yanks at the leather bonds securing her hands behind her back and to the metal post dug into the sand. She supposes she’s lucky it’s leather and not rope, else her wrists would be rubbed completely raw by now. She supposes she’s lucky she’s in a large, abandoned hut instead of in the hot sun and in front of a hundred men. She supposes she’s lucky she was captured instead of killed, like the priest and all the soldiers whose bodies she passed.

But all things considered, she doesn’t feel lucky at all.

The soldiers who had captured her wore black armor, the likes of which she hasn’t seen before. They didn’t ransack the shrine, only dragged her from her room in the back. In fact, they were very careful about not touching anything inside the shrine - except her, of course. They weren’t as rough as they could have been, but they were also none too gentle.

All of them glistening with sweat and smeared with blood and gore, sand sticking to their smelling skin - it had been right out of a nightmare. Except Katara had been pinched enough to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.

She’d seen the smoke from the temple of Apollo as they dragged her across the sand. She’d seen the bodies lying everywhere, the sand saturated with blood. There were a few soldiers going around, spearing the few men still breathing. She had to look away at the sight and she wished she could cover her ears from their pleading and screams.

The war had come sooner than she expected. It had come straight to her doorstep and taken her captive.

She’s been in this hut for a while - how long, exactly, she’s not sure. A couple hours? When the soldiers had brought her here, she’d seen the rest of the fleet slowly pulling up to the beaches, thousands of men piling out and setting up camp. There were so many men - so many more than inside the walls of Troy, women and children included.

Katara always believed in the strength and power of Troy. She believed in her uncle Priam’s wisdom and Hector’s fighting abilities and the city’s walls. After seeing the force they have to face, she has to admit that she’s holding onto Poseidon’s powers and praying for an intervening hurricane to wash them all away before they can get close to the people she cares about.

A voice sounds outside the hut, drawing closer to her. She strains her ears.

“ - though she might, uh, amuse you.”

The curtain over the entrance flares open. She turns to see a man in black armor with a black and gold helm enter. He looks over at her with golden eyes and she quickly turns away, trying to make herself as small as possible.

Katara has never felt fear like this before. In the palace, she was always kept safe, loyal guards never more than a shout away. In the temple, she was always surrounded by a sacred place where no man ever dared look at her sideways. Besides, her conservative robes kept her from attracting any undue attention. But now, when her clothes are ripped and worn, her hair loose and falling around her shoulders, and tied to a metal post, she’s completely at his mercy.

Katara may have never experienced the dangers of men, but she’s heard plenty of stories. She knows what his intentions are.

Still, she won’t go down without a fight. Katara didn’t grow up with Hector and Paris of Troy just to turn out weak and helpless. She’s stronger than she looks, tougher than anyone expects. 

There’s nothing but the sound of the man stripping off his armor for a minute. She hears water trickling as he splashes himself at the basin. Her own tongue darts out in her dry mouth. What she wouldn’t give for a mouthful of water right now.

“What’s your name?”

Katara jumps at the sound of his voice. It’s low and raspy, an undertone of anger to it. She presses her lips together tightly.

“I asked, what’s your name?”

“Why do you care?” she shoots back, trying to hide the tremble of her voice. 

He crosses the space between them, kneeling in front of her. Katara has to look at him, unless she closes her eyes, which she won’t. She won’t show fear in front of him.

His strange golden eyes glance up and down her body. Not in a predatory way, but more in an observational way. When he’s done, they land on her own and hold her gaze. To her surprise, she sees a lot of anger simmering behind them, as well as what appears to be a deep sadness. But nothing cruel, or evil.

But Katara isn't convinced. She knows what men are capable of. They’re the best of liars.

Besides, there’s something in his eyes that scares her. She’s sure she’s never seen his face before, but an instinct deep inside her screams out in warning. He’s strangely familiar in the most foreign way. And, despite that sixth sense telling her to get as far away from him as possible, she also feels like she’s supposed to be here with him.

It’s confusing and frustrating. She dislikes him immediately because of it.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, leaning back.

Her brow furrows together. She’s about to snap at him again when she realizes that might not be her best course of action. So far he’s not touching her, nor does he seem interesting in doing so (at least, not at this moment) so maybe if she plays her cards right she can stall for more time.

“Other than some bruises, I’m fine.” She forces her voice to be softer, but she can’t completely hide the edge to it. “You and your men must be real heathens to harm priests and acolytes.”

“I’ve killed many men in my time. None of them priests.” Zuko adjusts his stance and begins unlacing his sandals. Katara tries to ignore the blood splatters on his shins. She’s glad she didn’t get a good look at him before he washed the blood off his chest and hands. Right now, she can almost pretend he isn’t a complete savage. She can almost believe his words. “I’ve hurt many men in my time, too - but never women.”

“So you let your men do your dirty work for you.” The words just slip out. Katara regrets them, but it’s too late. So instead she owns up to them, catching his eyes and lifting her chin slightly.

“If my men do anything I don’t ask of them, it is of their own volition and the responsibility belongs to them and them alone.” Zuko pulls off his sandals and tosses them across the room. His eyes never leave hers. “What’s your name?”

“My name isn’t the one you should be worrying about.”

He leans back, crossing his legs and resting his arms on them. He studies her like she’s a curious specimen. Katara scowls and presses as far back into the post as she can. A chunk of his black hair falls into his face but he ignores it.

If he’s going to study her, then she can do the same to him. She wonders where in the world he comes from, exactly - he’s not Greek, at least not ancestrally. She’s never seen such slanted eyes or such black of hair. Only in depictions of the gods do they possess such otherworldly traits. Is he perhaps a child of a god? Ares, the god of war would be fitting - although Katara has never seen him fight, she doubts every soldier gets a private hut so large and nice as this. He must be a high ranking general - or perhaps a prince. He does have an air about him that she recognizes from growing up among her cousins. It’s a certain pride that he holds himself with, like he knows he’s above others.

“What names should I be worried about?” he asks. “Perhaps you mean King Priam, the lord of the city. Or perhaps Prince Hector, the famed warrior and general.”

Katara flinches. She wishes she didn’t, because his head tilts slightly and he regards her carefully. She tries to cover her tracks quickly.

“I mean Posideon and Apollo, the gods who you so blatantly disrespect.”

The warrior shakes his head. “I disrespect all the gods, priestess. None of them have struck me down yet.”

“They’re just waiting.”

“What for?” He opens his arms and tilts his head up to the sky. “I’ve never hidden from them. If they’re really out there, if they really cared, they could strike me down at any moment.”

“They’re waiting for the right time.” Katara tugs slightly at her ropes, grimacing when the motion does nothing more than irritate her raw wrists.

Zuko’s hands drop and his gaze falls back to her. “Stop dancing around the question. Tell me your name. Or should I guess?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You could be here for a long time.”

He doesn’t take the challenge. “Not so long. I know you’re royalty. You’re related to the king and the princes. You reacted when I talked about them and you have an air of royalty about you. Don’t look so surprised. I’ve spent a lot of time around kings and queens. I know one when I see one. Wearing a priestess’ robes doesn’t hide who you are.”

“I’m not hiding who I am. I am an acolyte. Of many years now.” Katara pauses. “Actually, I guess I’m the priestess now. Since your men killed the priest.”

He reaches back and ties the front of his hair back with a ribbon, looking bored. “I’m still waiting,” he says.

Katara sighs. He’s smarter than she would have thought. And really, what’s the harm in telling him her name? He knows who she is. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out on his own.

Either way, she’s screwed.

“Katara,” she says, glaring at the ground.

A voice outside the hut calls, “My lord!”

The warrior in front of her stands, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m Zuko.”

Her eyes widen in shock, her heart immediately skipping a beat before jumping into a pounding sprint. She’s heard that name before. In legends and tales. She knows exactly who he is. She recoils in fear, trying to get as far from him as she possibly can.

She thought he was a killer before. Now that she knows who he is, she knows how wrong she was. He isn’t just a killer. He’s a massacrer. He’s killed more men than she’s ever met in her entire life.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says, as if reading her thoughts. “You’re the only Trojan who can say that.”

Then he disappears, following the voice that was calling for him.

-

Zuko exits the tent, following the soldier sent to retrieve him. The man leads him to a large tent surrounded by many guards. He alone ducks inside.

More guards are lined up inside, along with a few sectioned off rooms and a mock throne room in the very middle. Zuko walks up the long section, watching the group of kings at the other end. He sees Agamemnon seated on a wooden throne, Triopas kneeling in front of him and Menelaus by his side. More kings, including Odysseus, line up against the cloth wall and await their turns.

If he was brought in here for politics, he might end up killing someone. No guarantees that it’s not a king.

Triopas is giving Agamemnon a gift and the other king is promising him in return spoils from Troy - a city they haven’t even conquered yet. Zuko rolls his eyes. Odysseus catches his look and reaches his hand up to suppress a smile. Heroes like them have seen this before - time and time again.

When Agamemnon raises his eyes and sees Zuko, he quickly dismisses the other kings. Odysseus gives his shoulder a friendly pat as he goes by, sympathy in his eyes. Neither of them have much time or patience for petty politics. Only now, Odysseus has tied himself to it with his crown while Zuko isn’t sure why he’s even here.

In another life, Zuko would be obsessed with politics. He always enjoyed the intrigue of it, and being surrounded by kings has given him an insightful look into how it all works. But after a day of slaughter and bloodshed, all he wants is a full meal and a good nights’ rest. He doesn’t have time or energy to spend puzzling things out and saying the right things to the right people. 

They made him a killer, so that’s what he’ll do.

“Congrats on your victory,” Zuko says dryly. 

King Agamemnon stares him down. “It was a fine victory,” he finally says. “This beach belonged to Priam in the morning and this evening it is mine.”

“So I witnessed. But I’m surprised you did, since you were so far behind when it happened.”

Agamemnon’s eyes twitch. He leans forward in his throne. “Careful with your words, boy,” he spits out. “You are talking to a king.”

Zuko doesn’t flinch. “And you are talking to the greatest warrior in all of Greece.”

The king narrows his eyes in anger before leaning back in his chair, a strange expression crossing his face that Zuko can’t quite read. “I heard your men sacked the temple this morning.”

“Help yourself to the spoils, if it’s homage you seek. I’m not here for gold.”

“No, you’re not. And I already took what I wanted.” Agamemnon snaps his fingers at two of his assistants. The opening to the tent widens and two guards drag in a flailing woman.

Zuko recognizes her immediately. The priestess, Katara. He doesn’t know if Agamemnon knows her true identity or if he just took her because of what she represents, but he can’t risk the king finding out. Once Katara’s identity becomes known, there’s no telling what Agamemnon will do. He might use her as blackmail against King Priam or he might torture her to rub it in their faces and break the Trojans’ spirit or do much, much worse things.

Zuko came to fight a fair war, not participate in dirty politics. He won’t let some innocent girl be dragged in the middle of it all. Not when he can help it.

Besides, he can’t deny the strange feeling in his chest when he sees her. His instincts tell him to fear her, though he’s not sure why a skinny priestess poses any threat to him. Beyond that, he has a feeling like he needs to protect her. Once again, he’s not sure why he feels that way, especially when his instincts are crying out that she’s a threat.

Whatever is going on in his mind, he doesn’t have time for it. He does have time to make Agamemnon sweat a little, though.

He reaches into his scabbards and pulls out his twin swords. They’re his signature style, unheard of in Greece which means it works to his advantage. His enemies don’t know what to do against him.

“Release her, or you’ll be dead within the minute,” he growls to the guards.

All the guards in the vicinity converge on him. He slices through them easily, not a thought in his head except to survive. True to his word, within a minute they’re all bleeding out on the ground. Agamemnon stands, and Zuko whirls towards him. The king quickly sits back down.

More guards rush in, but Agamemnon holds his hands up and they stop. Katara is standing to the side of the tent, her blue eyes open wide with horror. Zuko ignores her gaze on him and turns back to the king.

“I said you could take what you wanted from the spoils of the temple,” he says. “She did not come from the temple.”

“You should be mindful of who you’re dealing with,” Agamemnon threatens, his hands curling around the armrests of the throne tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. “Lest you forget that I am a king and you are nothing but a soldier.”

“I am not just any soldier.” Zuko stands up straight, the tips of his blades tiling towards the ground as blood drips off of them. “And even a king is subject to the gods.”

Agamemnon scowls at him, but Zuko pays him no heed. He is sick of politics for the night - for the duration of the war, really, but he knows he’s crossed a line. Agamemnon will be out for him now. He’s insulted him deeply.

_Is that how I’m going to die?_ Zuko thinks bitterly as he stalks away, grabbing Katara’s arm and dragging her with him. Not on the battlefield in glory but assassinated in his own bed by the king he’s fighting for?

Katara doesn’t fight him, which surprises him. Maybe she realizes that he’s saved her from a much worse fate. When Zuko secures her back in his own hut, she looks up at him with an expression that can only be described as sickened.

“Is that all you do?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you nothing more than a killer?”

“It is the only thing I’m good at.” He turns his back on her and moves to wipe his swords clean with a rag.

“I don’t want anyone else to die for me,” she says. “If they come for me, let them take me. Or be merciful and just kill me yourself, since you’re so good at it.”

Zuko frowns. She isn’t wrong, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“People are going to kill each other, regardless of your wants,” he says, sliding his swords back into their sheaths. “We’re in the middle of a war. It happens.”

“Only because men like you think that way. If everyone except the offended parties put down their swords, thousands of men could walk away.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, princess, but the world isn’t like that. Men like killing. Men like hurting others. Nothing is ever going to change that.”

There’s silence for a moment before she asks, “Do you like it?”

Zuko’s fingers tighten around the leather hilt of his sword. “No.”

“Then why do you do it? Why not walk away?”

He exhales deeply. “I told you. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

He waits, but she doesn’t speak again. He quickly strips down, only putting on a light tunic for the night. He splashes his face with water and then walks over to the corner of the hut with a simple straw mattress, pillow, and a pile of blankets. He picks one up and tosses it over to her before ducking underneath his own, his back to her, and closing his eyes.

-

Katara waits for a while to be certain that Zuko is asleep before she tugs at her bonds. He didn’t tie them as tightly as before, and she has some range of movement, but it’s still not enough for her to be free. She spends hours trying to loosen her knots to no avail.

When she finally settles back, she feels absolutely defeated. She’s not sure what’s worse - that she’s completely powerless right now and doesn’t have the strength to keep fighting, or that she’s secretly thankful that Zuko fought off King Agamemnon’s men to rescue her. It’s easy to speak harsh judgements and act tough, but she was so relieved that he came to her defense.

She doesn’t trust him, nor does she like him - she’s appalled by him, especially after seeing the way he mercilessly slaughtered all those guards just following orders - but she feels safer around him than around anyone else. He hasn’t made a move toward her yet, and she knows that’s more than the old king would be able to say by this point. She doesn’t want to imagine the horrible things he’d make her do.

She ends up watching Zuko. He slips fitfully, twisting and turning his blankets, mumbling incoherent drabbles. For as calm and untouchable as he acts when he’s awake, she can tell there’s more to the story. He’s not the stoic, unfeeling warrior he plays at. Katara isn’t sure if that makes things worse or better. A man who can feel and yet still commits atrocities verses a man who cannot feel and thus commits atrocities.

It’s a philosophical dilemma she doesn’t have the energy to solve.

It’s hours later when she finally falls asleep, slumped against the pole with her chin resting on her chest. Not comfortable by any means, but considering the alternative she almost certainly had, she won’t be complaining.

She’s woken when two men brush aside the curtain and step inside the hut. She raises her blinking eyes to the entrance, the sunlight nearly blinding her. One of the men is younger, maybe twenty years old. The other man looks to be about forty.

“Zuko!” the older man calls. “The armies are gathering.”

Zuko covers his face with his blanket. “We’re not going.”

Both men look stunned. “We’re not?” the older one asks.

“We will not join the ranks until Agamemnon begs for me to return. Now leave me in peace.”

The younger man steps forward. “But Zuko, we came all this way. You said I’d have a chance to prove myself in battle!”

“And you will have your chance, Timon. But not today.” Zuko rolls back over, effectively ending the discussion. The two men spare her a quick glance before disappearing.

Katara watches Zuko carefully, wondering what the whole exchange was about. Obvious Zuko was offended by the old king, perhaps because of how he treated her. But what was with the younger man?

And why did Zuko suddenly decide to not fight, after all his talk about it being the only thing he’s good at? Was it because of her words?

She doesn’t know, but she’s also not going to press the matter. At least if Zuko is staying here today instead of fighting, there’s a good chance the king won’t send his men after her again.

The day is pretty boring. Zuko sleeps long and late. Katara continues to try and pry her bonds free without much luck. At least it’s quiet - the entire army has gone up to the walls of Troy. Occasionally she hears loud cheers, which surprises her because it doesn’t sound like the men are fighting if they’re cheering, and that loud and in unison. There’s a knot in her chest as she thinks of her family, of Uncle Priam and Hector and Paris. She tries not to think of them, but her mind, ever the rebel, occasionally strays.

When Zuko finally wakes, he does nothing more than throw on appropriate clothes and disappear for a short while. When he returns, he comes bearing a platter of bread, fruit, meat, and a jug of water. He sets it on the ground and then crouches beside her to untie one of her hands. Although she wishes it were both, she has to admit that he has every reason to distrust her. If he let both of her hands free, she’d run at the first chance she got. Especially now that there are probably only a hundred men loitering around the camp.

They eat in silence. Neither makes eye contact with the other. Occasionally men will peek in, and sometimes Zuko goes out to talk with them just out of earshot. Katara eats her fill and leans back, flexing her wrist. There’s no point in completely untying her other hand, as Zuko will definitely see it when he ties her back up, but she does loosen the knot enough to where she could probably break out of it by herself. Then she looks around the hut for something - anything - to use as a weapon.

There’s a knife on the platter. It’s small, but sharp. She snatches it up and tucks up her sleeve, hoping Zuko doesn’t notice it's disappearance. He seems to be busy with other things, so why would he notice a little knife?

She holds her breath when he returns to the tent, but he doesn’t seem to notice. When they finish eating, he returns the empty platter. He comes back long enough to tie her other arm back before disappearing for a few hours.

At one point, Katara hears what can only be called a battle cry go up. The ground shakes as the thundering vibrations of hooves and footsteps rocks the land. She knows the battle must have begun in earnest. She pulls her knees up to her chest and tries not to think about all the horrible things that might be happening.

The battle doesn’t last long before she hears another round of cries go up and the thundering repeats itself. Zuko returns not long after. Katara watches as he shoves apart the curtain and then slams his hands against the wooden crate serving as a desk. She hears the creak of wood and is surprised he doesn’t end up punching right through it.

He stands there, breathing heavily, every muscle and line in his body taut and rigid. She shouldn’t feel happy but she does. Obviously, based on the sound of an army limping back into the camp and Zuko’s anger, the Trojans won the battle. Not the war, but an important battle.

Katara wonders if it would have gone differently if Zuko and his men were out there fighting. She would like to believe not, but she’s heard the stories of his fighting skills. It’s said that he’s taken down armies nearly singlehandedly. He’s an army in a person.

He doesn’t say anything that evening, just brings in some more food to share. He disappears again after they eat and returns after dark, heading straight to his bed. Katara watches until he falls asleep. It takes a few hours.

She can barely contain herself, but she forces herself to. Outside the hut, she can hear the roar of fires and smell burning flesh. Of course her uncle let the Greeks collect their dead for burning. It’s important that they send the dead to the Underworld in the proper manner. No matter the feud, her uncle would never be so callous as to forbid them that final rite.

When Zuko had tied her back up, he had tightened both knots. Luckily, he hadn’t noticed the knife. Katara patiently and quietly saws through the leather binding around her wrists. It takes about an hour due to her caution, but she finally breaks through. She moves her arms in front of her, gently massaging feeling back into her fingers and hands. Her wrists are rubbed raw but thankfully not bleeding.

She dares give herself only a few minutes to recover. She can’t waste any time. She picks up the knife, readjusts her grip, and sends out a prayer to the gods. She hopes they forgive her for what she’s about to do.

Katara crawls over to where Zuko is sleeping. She clenches the knife tightly in her hands and holds it up in the air over him. All she has to do is bring it down and the mighty warrior Zuko will be dead. She’ll be free - at least, until she gets caught trying to sneak out of camp.

How many lives can she save by ending one? And what if she does manage to escape? It will all be worth it, right?

She stares down at his face, troubled even in sleep, and finds that she can’t seem to bring it down.

The gods do react poorly to mortals killing their hosts. And so far, Zuko hasn’t wronged her. Zuko didn’t order her to be captured. He saved her from becoming King Agamemnon’s new plaything. He’s fed her and kept her hidden from all the other men who have less than pure thoughts.

She feels guilty hovering over him, as if she’s about to repeat a past mistake. And she still has that feeling that she’s missing something. For some reason, she thinks that if she kills Zuko, she’ll never find it.

Katara doesn’t like him, she definitely doesn't trust him, but she can’t bring herself to kill him. 

She leans back and lowers the knife to her lap. So what now? This was her big plan, and she can’t go through with it. So what happens now?

“I wasn’t sure if you could do it or not.”

Katara leaps back in surprise. Zuko sits up, looking wide awake. In the darkness, his eyes shine out.

Her jaw drops open. She’s not sure what to say. What excuses can she make up to try and explain what she’s doing in such a situation?

“You were awake?” she finally asks, giving up all pretenses.

“I noticed the knife was gone. I was curious to see what you’d do with it.”

If he wasn’t the greatest warrior in Greece, she’d think of it as pretty arrogant of him. As it is, she has to give him the victory.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he says, playing with the frayed ends of the blanket in his lap.

“What? That I couldn’t kill you?” Katara laughs bitterly. “I’d say it’s a pretty bad thing for me.”

“I see them every night.” His voice drops, barely above a whisper. He’s still staring at the blanket in his lap. “The faces of the men I’ve killed. There are so many of them. I wonder at it. How is it possible for one mortal man to kill so many others? How can one man end so many lives and still be human? Some days I look at my reflection and think that I have gone mad a long time ago and am just now realizing it.”

Katara listens silently. She has nothing to offer him except an attempt at understanding. Looking at him now, he’s not the strong, invincible soldier the myths and legends speak about. He’s a man who lost his soul a long way back.

She isn’t afraid of him anymore. She pities him.

“You’re a priestess.” He looks over at her, the anguish in his eyes clear. “Is there any forgiveness for what I’ve done?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice quiet in the nighttime. “But if there is, you must stop now. Go back to Greece. Don’t look back. Lay down your sword and never pick it up again. Leave the fate of Troy in the hands of the other men here.”

“They will lose without me.”

“Then let them lose.”

“And what of you? If I leave now, what becomes of you?”

Katara takes a deep breath. “I don’t know,” she admits. “You can’t exactly escort me back to the walls of Troy, now can you?”

Silence falls between them for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I cannot go back to Greece,” Zuko finally says. “If I abandon the kings when they need me, I will have no home in Greece. For better or worse, I must stay here. I must not fight, but I must remain here.”

A compromise, but one Katara can get behind. She can sense that the conversation is over, but there is still one unresolved matter. She doesn’t want to bring it up now, but it will be brought up eventually, so she might as well speak now.

“What about me?” she asks. “Are you going to tie me up again?”

He holds her gaze. “Are you going to run?”

She shakes her head.

“Then I have no reason to secure you. But I would not suggest leaving these walls. I cannot be everywhere at once.”

Katara nods. Zuko turns back over to sleep. She finds a flat and soft part of the ground and pulls the blanket over herself, stretching out and sleeping soundly for the first time since she’s been captured.

-

Zuko is up before Katara the next day. He leaves her sleeping in the hut and heads out into the camp. The smoke from the funeral pyres is still wafting up lazily into the air as the last embers smolder. The sky is pink as it always is after a slaughter.

A slaughter. That is exactly what yesterday was. The fool king Agamemnon let his men get too close to the walls of Troy, where their famed archers released volleys upon volleys down at their charging men, taking out entire ranks at a time. Zuko and some of his men had watched from a distance.

That happened, of course, after King Menelaus was stabbed through the heart by Prince Hector. The young prince Paris had challenged him to a fight to the death, only he'd gone running back behind his brother once Menelaus got the upper and. It would have been a brave sentiment, Paris challenging the old king in the stead of the tens of thousands of men gathered, except Zuko has been to war enough times to know that when fifty thousand men cross an entire sea, there’s no going home without bloodshed on a massive scale.

Perhaps if it had been King Menelaus alone, the armies would have turned back. But Zuko knows that King Agamemnon came for more than a runaway wife. He came for the glory of defeating an unbeatable city. His goal was always Troy, not Helen.

Today the men are rushing around the camp, once again hurrying to replace damaged armor, collect more arrows, sharpen swords and spear tips. Zuko pulls his cloak around him and slowly walks through the hustle. There’s a low energy around him, the hum of excitement of an upcoming battle.

That’s another thing Zuko doesn’t feel. He doesn’t feel fear, and he doesn’t feel excitement before a battle. 

He spies Odysseus walking his way. They meet and veer off to a quieter space by the edge of the water.

“For a man who is so desperate to claim the city, you’d think Agamemnon would want to pick winning strategies,” Zuko says, watching the waves lap at the shore.

“Yesterday was an embarrassment to all of Greece. The Trojans think we are going to retreat back across the sea.” Odysseus pauses. “I’m not sure we shouldn’t.”

“Menelaus is the one who called everyone to arms, and now he is dead. No need to retrieve his former wife.”

“Menelaus was a prideful fool. This was never about him. But you already know that. Just like you know that we can’t win this without you.”

“Agamemnon can’t win this without me,” Zuko corrects. “There is no ‘we’, unless you’ve become his slave.”

“If I could pack up my men and ship us all back to Ithaca, believe you me, I would. But the world isn’t so simple.”

“It’s as simple as you make it.”

Odysseus laughs a little. “For men like you, perhaps. You’re the only mortal who could insult Agamemnon to his face, kill his private guards, and walk away without punishment. I’m not quite convinced you aren’t a god yourself.”

“If I were a god, I wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s your problem,” Odysseus points out. “Your attitude about everything. Nothing fazes you. You are afraid of nothing. You walk around this world like you own it.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“Fear is good. It puts you in your place, reminds you that you aren’t a god, makes you humble. You’re the most arrogant person I know.”

Zuko smiles tightly. That may be how he appears, but it is far from the truth. Zuko is more than aware that he’s nothing more than a slave to the gods and their prophecies.

“You are subject to no king because you refuse to be. Because of your reputation, you get away with it. But someday you will meet someone who stands right back up to you, who won’t cower in fear. And that will be your doom.”

Zuko leans back. Odysseus stands. “The men need you. Morale is low right now. You don’t even have to fight much, just run through their ranks and lead a charge. That’s all I’m asking.”

The king takes a step to leave when Zuko speaks, halting him in his tracks. “You’re wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“I may not be subject to any kings, but I am subject to the gods. I have been their servant my entire life. Nothing I do is of my own accord. Even my death comes at their will.”

Odysseus shakes his head. “All of our deaths come at their will. You’re not special in that regard.”

Zuko watches as he walks away. The king is telling him nothing he doesn’t know already. Contrary to popular opinion, Zuko has never thought of himself as special. At least, never in a good way. He envies the men around him. Plain and ordinary thought they may be, they have full lives that he’ll never get to experience.

He reclines in the sand, closing his eyes and enjoying the sound of the crashing waves and the cry of the seagulls overheard. Moments like these are the only peace he’ll ever know.

So of course he’s interrupted.

“We’re not fighting again?”

He opens his eyes to see his cousin standing in front of him, his eyes simmering with anger and his arms crossed over his chest.

“No reason to,” Zuko replies evenly.

“You said I’d get a chance to fight! But the only time we’ve fought, I had to stay in the boat. And now, when thousands of men are dying, you forbid us from going to war!”

“Just because there is a battle does not mean we should fight it. I taught you how to fight, not why to fight.”

Timon shakes his head. “We’re fighting for our country! What more honor can there be?”

“We’re not fighting for our country, we’re fighting for the agendas of old men. Troy did not attack us. Troy did not cross a sea with an army to lay siege to our gates.”

“Troy insulted us. And if we back down now, we’re the ones who look weak.”

“Perhaps Agamemnon and the other kings should have thought of that before sailing across the Aegean.”

“Is this about that girl?” Timon demands. “Are you mad at Agamemnon for trying to take her?”

“It’s not about her,” Zuko snaps.

“But you refused to fight after Agamemnon took her. What else could it be? Haven’t you had enough women in your life?”

Zuko shakes his head. His cousin shouldn’t have come in the first place. He’s too young and immature to understand what’s going on here. He, like many men before him, has succumbed to the thirst for blood, blindly ignoring reason and logic.

“We do not fight because it is not a battle worth fighting,” he replies, standing and brushing the sand off his robes. He pushes past him and heads back into the camp.

-

Katara looks up when Zuko returns. He has brought another platter of food, which he sets in front of her. She takes a small portion and tosses it into the small hearth fire.

“An offering?” Zuko asks, leaning back and watching her.

“It is customary, when one asks something of the gods.”

“What did you pray for?”

She stares at him. She doesn’t understand him at all. Sometimes she thinks she has him pinned down, and then he does or says something that throws her off completely.

“I prayed for the safety of my family,” she says, picking at the food on the tray. “And for my safe return to them.”

Zuko stares at the fire. Then he leans forward, picks up a piece of meat, and hurls it into the flames. Katara watches the light flicker on his pale face, reflecting in his golden eyes.

“What are you praying for?” she asks.

“I prayed for peace, for my mother.” Zuko avoids her eyes as he reaches down and picks up a bunch of grapes.

Katara longs to ask him why he feels like she needs peace. As long as she’s not in Troy, she’s not in danger.

There’s something strange about his wording of it, and the sorrowful look in his eyes as he stares down at the fruit in his hands. Katara has spent years tending the shrine; she’s seen this look in men’s eyes before.

“You don’t think you’ll return,” she says quietly.

“I know I won’t.”

“You spoke to an Oracle? Prophecies can be vague and misleading.”

“I spoke to _the_ Oracle.”

Katara freezes. He’s referring to the Oracle of Delphi. Apollo’s own sacred Oracle.

“I had a feeling the moment I stepped on my ship. I knew I would never go back home. My mother knew it, too. She came to me the morning of my departure. She didn’t beg for me to stay. She didn’t ask for me to reconsider. She just gave me a parting gift and kissed my brow.”

“I didn’t know you had a mother,” Katara says, looking down.

“Every mortal has a mother, or did you think of me as born from the seafoam?”

Katara shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant - “

“You can’t see me as a son. For what son could act the way I do and still claim to love his mother?”

That’s exactly what she meant, but she wasn’t about to say it like that. Hearing it out loud makes her feel ashamed for thinking it.

“My mother knew what I was when I was born,” Zuko says. “She could have abandoned me or left me at the temple. But she accepted me instead. She knew that loving me would only cause her pain, but she did it anyway. So now I can only pray that she finds peace after years of sacrifice.”

Katara has nothing to say to that. They finish eating in silence.

That night, the Trojans attack the camp. She hears the whoosh of arrows, hears the screaming of men and the clash of weapons. She hears crackling fire all around them. Zuko perches by the opening of the hut, wearing only a simple tunic, his fingers wrapped around the hilts of his swords. He’s perfectly still, a statue.

Katara wraps her blanket more tightly around herself, wishing she could drown out the sounds of the fighting. She clutches her knife in her hand, knowing that it probably won’t do her much good if she has to use it but feeling comforted by it anyway.

The battle doesn’t seem to be faring well for the Greeks. Katara wonders if the Trojans will recognize her when they tear down the hut or if they’ll slaughter her like the Greeks. She wonders if her family thinks she’s dead already, if they’ve already mourned for her and moved on.

In the early morning, when the sky is gray, a cheer suddenly goes up from their side of the battle. Katara isn’t sure what it means. Zuko shifts for the first time, looking confused. He glances back at his make-shift table where he used to keep his armor, now empty, and his brow furrows.

The fighting stops not too long after. There’s no clear retreat that Katara can hear - one moment there’s fighting, and then horns on both sides are blasting.

Zuko stands, pacing back and forth in front of the opening.

A pair of men approach the entryway. Zuko pushes past the curtains and goes to talk with them, in low voices at first then she can hear him shouting angrily. She wraps the blanket tighter around herself, wishing she could disappear into the shadows. She can’t imagine what could have made him so angry, but she has a bad feeling in her gut.

She doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. When night falls, she begins to worry. The only thing more dangerous than an enemy in front of you is an enemy who has disappeared. And while Zuko may not be her worst enemy here, he’s still a threat. One she dares not let out of sight for too long.

She can smell the smoke of the funeral pyres after dark. It’s late - very late - afterwards that Zuko returns, shoving aside the curtain at the entrance and aggressively stripping off his weapons and sandals. His hair falls in chunks over his face and the smell of smoke clings to him.

Katara tucks her knees to her chest, truly fearing him for the first time. She can sense the anger radiating off of him in red hot waves.

Zuko must see the motion out of the corner of his eye because he whirls to face her. Katara holds her breath, her blue eyes locked in his golden ones.

“I go to war tomorrow,” he growls. “And I will show no mercy.”

She watches him as he stumbles over to his basin, splashing his face with water. She catches a glimpse of the tear streaks on his face before he washes them away.

“What happened?” she asks softly, terrified but needing to know.

“The Trojans killed someone I care about. Now I will destroy them.”

He doesn’t look at her again. Katara doesn’t dare speak. Despite the warmth of the fire, the hut is colder than it's ever been.

-

Zuko’s armor is returned to him in the morning. He can feel Katara watching him as he straps it on, but he ignores her. He can’t even think about her right now.

All he can see in his mind is his cousin’s body, surrounded by flames of the funeral pyre. Zuko only came to keep an eye on him. He should have stopped the foolish boy from coming in the first place. He never listened to Zuko. Of course he would steal his armor and try to be a hero.

Zuko can’t blame Prince Hector for buying into the deception, not when all his own men believed it as well, but he still does. Someone has to pay. Someone has to feel his wrath.

He shoots a glare over at Katara when he finishes putting his armor on. She’s watching him closely. He can’t read her expression, but he has a few ideas about what she must be thinking. Through his haze of anger and grief, it doesn’t reach him. He’s been too soft around her, let her get into the cracks in his armor. No longer. She’s his enemy, and he’s done enough for her now.

Besides, why should he feel the need to prove anything to her? She’s the one who said he was a killer. So today, a killer he shall be.

He storms out of the tent, whistling at some of the men standing nearby. A small carriage pulled by a horse is brought to him. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Odysseus and Agamemnon and a half dozen other kings watching as he smacks the reigns, urging the horse into a canter. He passes rows of armed soldiers who watch him with solemn determination.

He knows Agamemnon is using his grief to his advantage, but there will be time to deal with the man later. For now, there is another man who requires dealing with.

He approaches the walls of the city alone. They tower above him, but he does not fear them. He knows the archers could shoot him down at a moment’s notice, but he is not afraid. All he feels is a deep seated rage and a need to exact justice.

A life for a life. His cousin lost his life. Now it is time for someone to pay the blood price.

Prince Hector of Troy is said to be a good man, a fair leader and a strong soldier. Zuko has killed good men before. His blades don’t discriminate. It is for the gods to judge man, not him. He only sends them to the gods a little faster.

Hector meets him in front of the city, wearing flashing gold armor. There’s something familiar about him that Zuko can’t quite place. He doesn’t spend much time trying to. He didn’t come to learn about Hector, or to meet him. 

He came to kill him.

Hector stands across the dusty ground from him. Zuko slowly draws his swords, his shield forgotten on his carriage. Hector raises his shield with his left arm and draws his sword with his right.

“I thought it was you I killed yesterday,” the prince says.

“I wish it had been,” Zuko shoots back. “For both our sakes.”

Then he charges.

-

Katara hears conversations around the camp. Bits and pieces here and there. She kneels by the opening of the hut, her ears trained.

She doesn’t want to know, but she has to know.

The most horrible stories reach her ears. She tries to reason through them but she can’t. She tries to convince herself that they’re not true, but she can’t.

She saw Zuko’s anger last night. She heard his words this morning. If the stories she’s heard today are true - and she’s sure they are - then there is no doubt about what is happening right now.

When she hears the cheers go up in the camp and hears the sound of a wagon dragging something across the sand, she can’t stop the wave of grief and despair that overcomes her. She falls to the sandy ground, curling up in a ball, her body wracked with sobs.

The cheers and celebrations continue around the camp for the entire day. Katara’s sorrow turns into something harder, something darker. She grips the handle of the knife in her hand. She prays to the gods for forgiveness.

She prays for the destruction of her enemies.

When Zuko pushes the flap at the entrance back and steps inside the hut, she’s ready. She doesn’t care that he’s in armor and she’s wearing a tattered robe, she doesn’t care that he has two swords and she has a small knife, she doesn’t care that he’s the most infamous warrior in their part of the world and she’s an acolyte - she doesn’t care about anything except hurting him.

“You bastard!” she screams, lunging at him with her fist. He catches her wrist and holds her to the side. But Katara isn’t completely stupid and she expected that of him. In her left hand, hidden beneath her sleeve, is the knife. She pretends to go limp and when his grip loosens, she slices at him.

He dodges to the side, the blade missing him by a hair. He grabs her with both hands, twisting her wrist enough so that she’s forced to drop the knife, and holds her out in front of him. She thrashes, desperately trying to claw at him, but catching only leather armor.

“He was my cousin!” she screams, trying to no avail to shake him. “He was my family and you murdered him and dragged his body through the sand like a loose thread. You’ve doomed him to a wretched afterlife!”

Zuko pushes her away. She tumbles onto the sand, immediately pushing herself up on her elbows. But he doesn’t attack further, just glares at her with red-rimmed eyes.

“And he killed my cousin. Timon was just a kid! He didn’t know any better!”

“It’s a war! That’s what happens when people fight! What did you expect would happen if you brought a kid to a battlefield?” Katara kicks up sand at him in disgust. “If you kill everyone who kills someone you just create more killers.”

“What was I supposed to do? Forgive him?” Zuko throws his helmet onto his make-shift desk with a loud clatter. “Blood for blood. That’s the price.”

“And desecrating his body? Was that part of the deal?” Katara’s throat is hoarse, but she can’t seem to quiet her voice. Not when it’s the only outlet for her rage. “He wouldn’t have done it to you, and you know it! He was a good man. He wasn’t a killer, or a monster.”

“But I am.” Zuko’s voice is suddenly much calmer. It still has that rough, angry undertone that it always has, but he’s not yelling anymore. “You knew what I was. Why are you surprised when I act the way I am?”

A fresh wave of tears well in Katara’s eyes and spill over onto her cheeks. The rage suddenly disappears, leaving her feeling empty inside. “Because I thought you might be more. I thought there might be something human within the beast.” She swipes at her face with the back of her hand. “I was wrong.”

When she looks up again, Zuko is gone.

-

Zuko sits outside on the beach, watching the waves crash against the shore. In his hand he holds the blue stone necklace his mother had given him. His thumb rubs over the wave pattern and he thinks back to his conversation with Katara the other day.

How could a mother love a son like him, indeed. Zuko has thought it before, but never more than today. He’s always been a killer, always been a fearsome warrior, often acted arrogant and cocky, but he’s never been cruel. And there’s no other word to describe his actions today.

He didn’t know Hector was Katara’s cousin. He should have guessed - now that he thinks about it, he can see the similarities in their looks, but more so in the way they hold themselves. Zuko only spoke with Hector for a short minute, but he had the same bearing to him that Katara does. And of course, he knew that Katara was royal.

Had he known her relation to him, he’s still sure he would have killed Hector. The prince killed his cousin. Zuko has no regrets about that. But killing a man in an honorable combat is one thing. Desecrating his body and denying him proper funeral rites is something else completely.

Timon’s body was left to the Greeks, no worse for the wear other than the gaping gash in his throat where he’d bled out. If Zuko was honorable, he would have left Hector’s body where it fell.

Zuko knows the tale has already spread through the camp. No doubt it is spread throughout Troy and will eventually make its way back to Greece. He’s glad he won’t be seeing his mother again. He can’t bear the look of disappointment she would have on her face. His mother is the kind of woman who is willing to do hard things, but she never does more than she has to or takes delight in the anguish and suffering of others. Zuko wasn’t like that, either. At least, not until today.

Maybe he should have let Katara stab him. Who knows what else he’s capable of? What else he might do before this war is over?

He hears soft footsteps approaching. A cloaked figure comes to sit by him.

“I beg your mercy, mighty warrior,” the man says, reaching up and pushing back the hood of his robe. Zuko jumps back, recognizing not the face so much as the voice and the bearing.

“King Priam?” he asks, his hands reaching for the hilts of his swords. “What are you doing here? And how did you get here?”

“I came for my son.” The old king looks up at him, his ancient eyes appearing broken. “I will not return without him.”

Zuko stares at him, shocked. “I could kill you in the time it takes you to blink. You have no hope of escaping me.”

Priam doesn’t react. “Do you think I fear death?” He raises trembling arms. “I am close to death already, and after what I’ve endured, it would be a kindness.”

Zuko moves his hands from his blades. The old man is no threat. And yet, Zuko respects him.

“You are brave to come here,” he says, sitting back down in the sand. “Even if you are on a fool’s errand.”

“I am not brave. I am in agony and fear has no hold over me. Will you deny me my simple request?”

Zuko clenches his jaw and turns back to the waves. His anger from this morning has dulled, but there is still enough of it within him to rise up. “He killed my cousin.”

“And now you have killed him.” The king stares at him.

The old king is a lot like Katara, Zuko has to admit. He can see where she got her quiet wisdom from. He feels like the man is peering straight into his soul and uncovering all his insecurities.

Zuko thinks of his mother in this moment. If she was the one risking her life to go to someone else to beg for his body, looking broken and frail yet holding herself upright, he would expect them to agree to her terms. Especially when they are as costless as this one.

He stands. “Come.”

-

Katara hears the hum of voices outside and the soft neighing of a horse. She wakes herself fully from her slumber, rubs her eyes, and heads to the opening. She knows it’s dangerous for her to venture outside, but she’s sick of hiding in here.

She pushes open the curtain and steps into the night air. The first thing she sees is the carriage, a covered body strapped to a plank and secured to the cart. The second thing she sees is Zuko and an old man speaking in low tones.

“...funeral rites last twelve days,” the old man is saying. Zuko nods once.

“Then I shall give you twelve days. I promise no Greeks shall attack the city in that time.”

Katara’s jaw drops as she realizes who the man is. She hitches up her tattered robes and runs to him.

“Uncle!”

He turns to her, throwing his arms out as she reaches him. He holds her tightly, stronger than his ancient frame suggests. “Katara? We thought you were dead.”

“No, Uncle.” She clings to him, not wanting to let go. She doesn’t waste time asking how or why he’s here; she’s sure she’ll hear that story in due time. She’s more concerned about this being a dream and waking up.

“You should go.” Zuko’s voice is low and quiet, the angry undertone for once gone. He doesn’t quite look either of them in the eye. “No one will attack you. I give you my word.”

“Thank you.” Priam clutches Zuko’s hands quickly before stepping up onto the carriage. “Come, Katara.”

She hesitates, looking back at Zuko. Not because she wants to stay - she’s definitely getting on that carriage and returning home - but because she doesn’t understand. She searches in his golden eyes for an answer, but she sees none.

“Your cousin was the greatest warrior I ever fought,” Zuko says. “He’ll live on forever in Elysium.”

Katara remembers what he told her about his trip to the Oracle and his destiny. “So will you,” she says. She turns to join her uncle, then turns back for a moment. “Zuko, when you see him…”

“I’ll pass along your regards.”

She nods. They stand there for a moment, facing each other, and then Katara turns and steps on the carriage. Her uncle wraps one arm around her shoulders and the horses set off at a trot.

Katara looks back once, watching Zuko’s figure melt into the darkness.

Despite her joy at being reunited with her uncle, she feels like she’s making a huge mistake by leaving him. The feeling that she’s missing something only grows stronger as she’s driven farther away from him.

-

Twelve days later, startling news comes to the city. Katara is working in the temple of Zeus in the city when she hears the rumors of a beach empty save for a few plague-ridden corpses and a tribute to the gods. Later that day, the city is alive with celebrations as a team of men and horses haul the massive wooden horse through the front gates. Katara watches from the palace, an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

The Trojans are celebrating their victory. Yet somehow, it feels like a defeat.

Katara chalks it up to her sorrow over Hector’s death. Despite the good mood in the city, the palace has been morose. Katara spends much time with Andromache, who is beside herself with grief at her husband’s death and Helen, who blames herself. She tries to comfort them both while feeling lonely herself.

She’s only seen Paris a handful of times since her return. She has spied on him at night, when he takes out his bow and shoots a straw dummy in the courtyard. She can see the anger and determination written all over his face.

It’s the same look Zuko had before he went and killed Hector.

King Priam has retreated. He still conducts his courts and meetings as he must, but Katara can see the toll Hector’s death has taken on him. He is not the same man who led the great city of Troy for decades. He’s a shell of a person, his thoughts clouded over by loss. Katara sees him drifting around the palace aimlessly. She prayers for him and sends out sacrifices to the gods, but she fears they are not heard.

The great horse being paraded through the city is nearly as tall as the highest buildings. Katara can’t believe that a statue made of driftwood could be so heavy. There’s something off about it.

“Look at them,” she overhears Paris telling Helen as they watch the festivities around the horse. “You’d think their prince had never died.”

Prince Hector wasn’t the only casualty of the war. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of their own men had died. The city is emptier than before - not by much, but enough that Katara notices. Still, that doesn’t stop the revelers.

The parties last until night. Finally everyone drifts home by torchlight, wearied but full of heart. Katara is not. She’s sleepless and restless. She can’t shake the bad feeling in her chest. She ends up walking the halls of the palace, finally ending up on her balcony.

She stares up at the stars, at the constellations and all the heroes forever saved within them. It’s a warm, peaceful night. It would be perfect if not for the emptiness inside of her.

She’s about to turn and go back to her room when she hears a strangled cry. She hears the light patter of footsteps in the distance, then a metallic clang. It’s all very faint, so faint that she almost thinks she must be imagining it. Except she keeps hearing it, here and there.

Katara runs through the palace, heading towards the main balcony that overlooks the square, where the horse statue was left. When she peers over the edge, she sees that chunks of the horse are missing, leaving gaping holes that reveal the hollow inside. Her suspicions are confirmed - why was the statue so heavy if it’s hollow?

Then she sees the guards bleeding on the ground and she steps back in horror. And not a moment too soon - an arrow flies up, narrowing missing her. Katara gathers up the hem of her robe and sprints back into the palace, shouting a warning to any that might hear.

“The Greeks are in the city! We’re under attack!”

-

When Zuko first hears Odysseus’ plan, he thinks that the king and former hero has finally gone mad. There are so many ways it could go wrong. So few possibilities where it works out. He claps the king on the back and wishes him luck.

The twelve days of morning pass, and all the other Greek kings go forward with preparing themselves for Odysseus’s plan. Zuko moves out of sight with the army, but other than that he doesn’t participate. He sends his men home and wonders what he’s ever still doing in Troy.

The night before the attack, everything changes.

Zuko is sleeping as restlessly as he always does. Nightmares of battle and ghosts of the men he’s killed haunt him. Then, when it’s almost too much to bear, his dream shifts.

He’s in a different place, in a different time. He’s rushing down into a village, a war cry upon his lips. He’s younger than he is now, as is the girl he’s running towards. She turns and he sees bright blue eyes that he recognizes immediately. Around her neck is a turquoise stone necklace.

She runs from him, wading into the lake whose shores she was standing at. He follows her, a spear clutched in his hand. She swims away and he throws it, hitting her thigh. It goes through her and blood bubbles up to the surface. He chases after, ripping the necklace off her neck.

The water closes over him and he wakes up, panting. He scrabbles at the pocket of his tunic, pulling out the stone necklace his mother had given him. It looks exactly like the one the girl in his dream had been wearing.

Not just a girl - _Katara._

He holds the stone in the palm of his hand, not understanding his dream. Is it a prophecy from the gods? He thought only priests and Oracles received dream visions. Was it just a nightmare compounding the guilt he feels about her? Was it a premonition?

Whatever it was, Zuko knows it’s a sign. He can’t ignore it. Not when he looks down at the necklace and the strange feeling he had around Katara surges within him like a wave that threatens to drown him.

First thing in the morning, before daylight has broken, Zuko finds Odysseus. The king is preparing to join the rest of his selected soldiers in the wooden horse. Zuko gets to him just in time.

“Changed your mind?” Odysseus asks, smiling at him. “Want a share of the glory?”

Zuko simply nods. He doesn’t tell the king that he’s not going to help defeat Troy. He’s not going to fight Trojans.

He’s going to find a certain priestess who might be able to help him figure out the meaning of it all.

-

The city is burning.

Katara retreats to a farther part of the palace. Not long after she started calling out, the alarms in the city went up. Not that they helped much - the Trojans used the advantage of surprise to commandeer the gate and open it up to their waiting armies. The night air is rent with screams and the roar of fires and the sound of blades.

The city is burning and there is nothing they can do to stop it.

Katara runs to the quarters of the princesses. She finds Andromache clutching her baby son, pounding on the door to Helen and Paris’ room. The other couple quickly emerges, Paris holding his bow, a quiver of arrows on his back and a sword around his waist. They meet up with Katara and run, following Andromache as she leads them through twisting corridors to their escape route.

Guards and servants run everywhere. Every time they run by a balcony or opening, Katara catches a glimpse of the spreading fires. They don’t have much time before the Greeks reach the palace.

They’ve collected a small gathering by the time they reach the tunnel. Andromache leads the way, her son in one hand and a torch in the other. A line of servants and a few guards follow her. Helen starts to go, pulling Paris along, when he stops her.

“I’m staying,” he says.

“The city is gone. There is nowhere to stay,” Helen replies, pulling at him. He gently untangles her fingers.

“My brother would not have run. I have been a coward for far too long.”

He kisses her quickly before running back to the main part of the palace. The screams and shouts are still far off enough that Katara risks following him a ways, peeking into rooms and directing anyone she finds towards the tunnel. She has to save as many people as she can.

Katara tries to keep track of Paris as she helps the servants and the guards’ wives evacuate, but she loses sight of him. She feels a vibration go through the floors and hears banging on the palace gates. The Trojans are at their doorstep. They’re demanding to come in.

There’s still an entire wing she hasn’t checked. Katara picks up her pace, running faster. She’s not a fighter, not in this life, but that doesn’t mean she’s just going to flee. 

She also can’t shake the feeling that there’s something still here for her, something she can’t miss.

Katara runs through the courtyard, open to the air. She hears screaming and the sound of columns and statues tumbling. The Greeks have made it inside, then. She doesn’t have more time, but she forces herself forward. At the least, she has to evacuate the temple. Too many servants of the gods have been slaughtered already.

She runs past a skirmish between a group of Trojans and Greeks. She hears someone call her name but she ignores whoever it was. She doesn’t have time to stop.

She feels a tug in her chest, leading her forward. It’s pulling her along frantically, as if she doesn’t have much time. Whatever it is she’s missing, she’s sure she’ll find it if she follows that instinct inside of her. It must be at the temple. It’s obviously the gods that are leading her.

Katara skids to a stop before she reaches the steps of the temple. The statues by the entrance are smashed, a few Trojan guards lying dead, their blood spilling down the steps. Flames lick out from the inside of the building.

She’s too late. The temple is gone. She has to turn back now, make it to tunnels and escape. She’s saved all who she can save.

So why does that instinct inside of her tell her she’s still missing something?

Suddenly her hair is yanked back and she feels the bite of a sword at her throat and the dig of armor at her back. A second Greek soldier saunters up to her, passing his sword from hand to hand as he looks at her.

“You missed the festivities, priestess,” he leers. “But it’s not too late to make a sacrifice to your god.”

He raises his sword. Katara clenching her eyes shut, preparing for pain. She hears the whoosh of a sword and the clang of metal. But there’s no pain. Instead, she feels the pressure on her hair loosen and the blade at her sword fall away.

Her eyes blink open and she sees Zuko standing in front of her, his face splattered with blood and his sword blades dripping with it. She’s never been so relieved to see an enemy before.

“It’s you,” she whispers, staring at him. Standing in front of him now, her instincts are going wild. This is where she’s meant to be. She’s almost found what she’s missing. She doesn’t understand it, but she can feel it.

“I had a dream,” Zuko says. He sheathes his swords at his waist and reaches into his pocket. “I didn’t understand it - ”

“Katara! Duck!”

She whirls around, moving to the side at the same moment the voice that called out to her releases the arrow in his bow. Paris. It takes her a moment to realize what’s happening. By the time she turns back, Zuko is already doubled over, clutching at his side.

“Paris, wait!” she cries. She turns back to Zuko, unsure of what to do. She doesn’t understand the strange feeling of fate surrounding them. It’s nothing like she’s ever felt before. Not good, not bad - just a strong connection.

“Katara, we have to go!” 

Zuko straightens up just in time to get hit with another arrow, this one better aimed. A third one follows immediately, and he drops to his knees, blood spilling out of his mouth.

Katara is torn. She feels like her fate is here, with Zuko. But how can it be when he’s dying and there are Greeks converging around them, the remains of their royal guard barely keeping them at bay?

Her cousin calls out to her once more. She looks back at Zuko, who tries to choke something out but only succeeds in spitting up blood.

“I’m sorry,” she says, although she’s not sure exactly what she’s sorry for. His death? He knew he fated to die when he came. The harsh words she said to him when she was in his camp? She doesn’t regret them, they were the truth. Not understanding what he’s trying to tell her? Maybe. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it. She picks up the hem of her skirt and runs to Paris’ side.

She spares one last look back at Zuko’s body. His arm is outstretched towards her, his fist open to reveal a hint of blue. Katara feels a tug in her heart to go after it, to pick it up, but she pushes away the feeling and clutches Paris’ arm as he fights his way through the halls.

They escape that night, her and Paris. They run and leave the city behind them. But though they survive, Katara never escapes the feeling that she missed something important by not waiting just one more minute with Zuko. She never stops wondering what he was trying to say to her, what he spent his dying breath trying to give to her.

It haunts her for the rest of her life.


End file.
